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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777967">A Beautiful Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlandtheunicorn/pseuds/theowlandtheunicorn'>theowlandtheunicorn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Drama, Endeavour coffee shop AU to cure what ails ya, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, a softer Oxford, baby Morse, certain canon events covered, fleabag voice: this is a love story, if what ails ya is a lack of Endeavour coffee shop AUs in your life, mostly just relationships and dialogue and introspection, multiple POVs, no murdering either, not so much existential angst as existential 20-something jitters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:55:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlandtheunicorn/pseuds/theowlandtheunicorn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many ways to go home.<br/>Or: In 1965, Endeavour Morse starts working as a barman and discovers a new side of Oxford.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Endeavour Morse &amp; Everyone, Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are many ways to go home, but very few ways to find home once you don’t know what that means anymore. And if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that no amount of sitting in the dark basement flat in Carshall Newtown surrounded books, records and scant pieces of furniture can make that fact easier to bear.</p><p>Because even though solitude has often been easier to bear than the alternative, the days of the Royal Signals are long behind, and recently he’s found himself dreaming of <em>people</em>. Seeing them, being with them, drinking tea with them, just sitting with old college friends or colleagues from the Corps, mostly forgotten by his waking mind but so vivid, real, <em>alive</em> in his subconscious one. It’s not even Susan – they’re not <em>those</em> kinds of dreams, his heart’s neither broken nor mended in them – just plain old people that make him wish he hasn’t cut his ties with such a sharp pair of scissors.</p><p>But maybe something can still be found, not necessarily home but <em>something</em>, anything that will make that void a bit more bearable and the days a little less uniform.</p><p>It’s those dreams and that loneliness that put him on a train to Oxford one day with no plan or sense of direction, hoping he might run into anyone he once held a minimal amount of liking for and didn’t part on bad terms with. To sit down for a cup of tea and a bit of catch-up seemed embarrassingly out of reach, but he’d have taken just about anything that didn’t involve sitting in that tiny flat feeling like he might spontaneously combust.</p><p>What he wasn’t expecting was for Oxford to hit like a blow to the gut, take his breath away and lift his spirits all at once. He arrived and found he couldn’t look down. The spire-filled skies drew his eyes like magnets as he walked along the familiar streets, his hope of running into someone quite forgotten. The city itself greeted him like an old friend, and <em>long time no see</em> softly whispered the leaves, and the faraway hum of the colleges, and the bustle of the midday crowd, and the echoes of the memories.</p><p>Really, there was only one thing to do.</p><p>He went to a store, bought a newspaper, sat on a bench and opened the job ads section.</p><p>They caught his eye immediately. The big bold letters, those lovely three words that made his heart flutter in his chest, right before he saw what was written underneath: <em>coffee shop</em>.</p><p>He rolled his eyes and cast them elsewhere, but a quick scan only showed more of the stuff he’d been doing so far, even more unpalatable options, or just plain impossible ones. The page was an oasis for housekeepers, nannies, typists and maids, but somehow no one seemed to be doing anything that required college and army drop-outs with a penchant for crosswords and opera. He sighed and threw his head back, rubbing his eyes.</p><p>He was just about to give up and throw the newspaper away when his eyes were once again drawn to the first ad he saw. The familiar words had already awoken the melody in his ears, it was practically calling out to him –</p><p>And something rebellious stirred.</p><p>Why not? In the end, why not? Why not do something completely mad and out of character again? The last time he was at a loose end he joined the Royal Signals, that ought to have shocked everyone sufficiently enough, another crazy change of direction would hardly do the same, not that there was much of an everyone to shock this time around. And he was so tired of sitting in the dim light of the tiny basement flat, of empty spaces everywhere he turned, of nobody to make a connection with.</p><p>Plus, it had obviously been named by someone who loved opera. If he was a different kind of person, he would have taken it as a sign. As it were, he took it as a straw.</p><p>He returned to Carshall Newtown with a virtual spring in his step, tenderly feeding the determination like a tiny fire he couldn’t let die, shutting out all intrusive thoughts except for basic instructions such as <em>type out resume, put in envelope, address. Go outside, post. Breathe.</em></p><p>Once it was safely in the mailbox, he allowed all the thoughts to come rushing back.</p><p>What had he done?</p><p>*</p><p>What is home, really? Certainly not the cheap one-room flat he found just to have some place to put a bed and his record player that didn’t also contain Gwen. The only true home he’s ever known has been with his mother, and he doesn’t even remember the place itself, just that feeling, the one you only become aware of having – or rather not having – when it’s gone.</p><p>After that, it’s been fairly straightforward. From his mother’s house to his father’s, from Oxford to the Royal Signals to Carshall Newtown, like stepping stones that led him to… what? Another stepping stone. He’s done it since he was twelve, spreading the memory of home thinner and thinner until there was not enough, not nearly enough of it in one place to be worthy of the name.</p><p>Oxford, a place of understanding and books and everything he could hope to satisfy his mind.</p><p>Has it ever been home?</p><p>Home was Susan, until she wasn't.</p><p>Just like home was family, until it wasn’t.</p><p>But there are traces of belonging here in Oxford like there aren't anywhere else. He can feel it surround him, no matter how faded and forgotten. It's there. There’s <em>some</em> of him left there, at least.</p><p>*</p><p>He does his best to steady his breathing and look calm, relaxed and professional, like someone you’d want to see behind a bar. He isn’t sure it’s working. His feet seem to be having a mind of their own, taking him five steps to the right, five steps to the left and all over again in front of the door to the coffee shop, and every few seconds he needs to remind himself to actually breathe and not just allow the tiniest molecules of air to enter his lungs while he’s too busy trying not to panic.</p><p>Really, he shouldn’t fret so much. The owner’s read his resume; if that hasn’t discouraged them, nothing will. He can’t leave a much worse impression in person, surely?</p><p>He lets out a huge shaky breath through his mouth.</p><p>He <em>wants </em>this.</p><p>*</p><p>She’s a torturous two minutes late, but arrives with a smile, holds out her hand and introduces herself as Dorothea Frazil. As she grips his hand, her smile turns peculiar.</p><p>“We've met before,” she says.</p><p>“I don't think so.”</p><p>She frowns. “Are you sure? I could swear...”</p><p>He shrugs and shakes his head.</p><p>“Oh, well. Must be one of those things.”</p><p>He has no idea what to say to that, but she seems to take pity and beckons him inside.</p><p>The place is pleasantly warm and fresh at the same time, with a faint scent of coffee and something sweet still present in the air, and tastefully decorated in colours of autumn. It’s closed for the day, to hold the interviews most likely, but he can imagine it bustling with customers, intelligent and refined as befits such a name. His heart swells as he sees a big old record player in a corner and a huge stack of records.</p><p>They sit at one of the tables and she takes out a bunch of papers from her suitcase. He has to suppress a groan when he recognizes his resume on top. Surely she isn’t going to read it there in front of him?</p><p>Unfortunately, that is precisely what she seems to intend.</p><p>“So, Endeavour Morse...”</p><p>“Uh, just Morse. I go by Morse.”</p><p>Over the paper, she gives him a look.</p><p>“With such an interesting first name? Seems like a terrible waste.”</p><p>For a moment, he’s at a loss. She seems to have a way of talking that makes him unsure if she's joking or not, and her eyes are sharp and perceptive, but they also seem kind, so he tries to smile back, though he suspects it comes out more of a grimace.</p><p>“My mother was a Quaker and my father's an admirer of James Cook,” he says before he can stop himself, while that perpetually embarrassed part screams <em>too much information! she couldn’t care less, she’s only poking fun </em>– “… I'm afraid I've never shared their enthusiasm.”</p><p>“My parents were avid readers of George Elliot. I sympathise.”</p><p>At that, the first genuine smile lifts up his lips.</p><p>“Morse it is, then. Your secret will be safe with me, <em>if</em> you get the job. Right! Let’s see…”</p><p>She gazes at the paper in her hands with a slight frown. He fidgets in his chair.</p><p>This is <em>agony</em>.</p><p>“Do you have any experience in this line of work?”</p><p>“Uh, not much, I'm afraid. That is…” He scratches his neck. “Not at all, actually.”</p><p>Unperturbed, she glances down again.</p><p>“Some years at Lonsdale… I see you've been in the Signal Corps. Then you left...”</p><p>She turns the resume over, glances at the bunch of papers on her desk to see if there’s more, then reverts her attention back to the one in her hands.</p><p>“Some one-on-one tutoring, a spot of translation, an odd opera review...” She puts the paper down. “Just to be clear, you <em>have</em> worked with people before?”</p><p>“Well, to be perfectly honest… No, I haven’t.”</p><p>There’s a pause. A blush creeps up his face.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I thought – I thought you read it before –”</p><p>“The first impression, Morse. I find it far more useful than a piece of paper people tend to embellish to the point of absurdity, though I must say you’ve shown an admirable amount of restraint as far as that goes,” she says, eyes glinting.</p><p>He blinks. It’s never occurred to him to lie.</p><p>“But if you don't mind me asking, what in heaven’s name made you apply?”</p><p>Ah, here we are. He straightens a little in his chair.</p><p>“Actually, it was the name. Of the coffee shop.”</p><p>This doesn’t have the effect he imagined. She frowns in apparent confusion, waiting for him to explain, and his blush intensifies.</p><p>“Un Bel Di? From Madame Butterfly –”</p><p>“Right! Yes, it was named after the aria. I thought about changing it, but the customers would have my hide. The first owner named it, and he passed away, so it’s become a bit of a shrine. He was rather an opera aficionado.”</p><p>“… Oh.”</p><p>She gives him a knowing look.</p><p>“I'm guessing you and he would have hit it off splendidly.”</p><p>“Presumably,” he mumbles.</p><p>“Now I do hope I’m not such a disappointment as that.”</p><p>He opens his mouth to protest, but she waves him off, smiling.</p><p>“Let’s put that aside for now, and let me tell you a bit about the job itself. It’s simple enough. Tea and coffee and beer, those are the foundations of this establishment. You’d need to be ready to make fresh tea and coffee at a moment’s notice since that along with beer covers about 70% of the orders. The stronger stuff is on the top shelf, and before you ask, no, I don’t mind if you have some on occasion, just don’t let it be too obvious to the customers.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t drink.”</p><p>“Indeed? Well, how refreshing.”</p><p>Again, it could be either genuine or teasing – whatever it is, he senses no malice behind it. But he wonders if such a prolonged period of solitude has made him even less capable of leading a conversation than usual, as he comes up blank again. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind.</p><p>“We also offer a range of confectionary. For that, I’d just need you to be able to recognize what it is that the customer is ordering, if the waiter is otherwise engaged.”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>“Right. Any questions?”</p><p>He shakes his head.</p><p>“Well, I think I’ve got most of the things I wanted to know,” she says, and he frowns. Surely he hasn’t said one thing that’ll actually help her decide?</p><p><em>Or rather, she’s already decided</em>, he thinks miserably.</p><p>“There’s one last thing I have to ask, since the first owner practically made it a requirement in his last will and testament.”</p><p>She seems to look somewhere far away, the tiny ever-present smile fading into something more solemn. “This coffee shop has cultivated a certain unwavering… <em>je ne sais quoi</em> ever since it opened five years ago. It’s what separates it from most run-of-the-mill coffee shops the city’s full of – and I would very much like to keep it that way. Both to honour the first owner as well as keep our pockets sufficiently filled.”</p><p>She fixates her eyes on him now.</p><p>“If you’re going to work here, Morse, you need to care about the people who walk through that door. You need to care about whether their day is beautiful or not.”</p><p>A few seconds of silence, and then:</p><p>“Do you think you’d be able to do that?”</p><p>That answer, at least, comes easily.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>She nods, and there’s that smile again.</p><p>“Alright, Mr Morse. That would be all. Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait too long for the verdict.”</p><p>*</p><p>When he exits the coffee shop, it’s a few moments until he remembers what he’s supposed to do next.</p><p>Right. The station.</p><p>The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s sitting on a train and the passing landscape’s telling him he’s almost arrived, while he’s still going over the conversation in his head, remembering the warm colours, the record player and Miss Frazil’s soft smile.</p><p>Really, it didn’t go as bad as if could have. He hasn’t embarrassed himself nearly as much as he has the capacity for, but he hasn’t left the stellar impression he was hoping to make while bonding over opera either. She hasn’t outright laughed at his resume, though. That should count as a small victory, all thing considering, he thinks morosely.</p><p>But he won’t get it. That, at least, is clear.</p><p>*</p><p>The phone rings first thing tomorrow morning. He jumps up from a bleary sleep, and it takes him a couple of moments to place the jarring, unfamiliar sound – then yesterday comes rushing back, and he almost stumbles in a dash to pick up.</p><p>After a brief conversation, he puts the receiver back on the hook. He stands there for several minutes, frowning, wondering if this is real or his yearnings have started haunting his waking moments too.</p><p>He’s to start on Monday, four days from now.</p><p>In three days, he replaces the dingy flat in Carshall Newtown for a dingy flat in Oxford, and it almost feels like coming home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This started as just a bit of fun in my head, and then what was supposed to be a one-shot quickly turned into the first chapter and the first chapter turned into the first three chapters and it's now an entire PROJECT, and while I'm sure nobody in this world needed an Endeavour Coffee Shop AU, I'm still posting it as I've been having too much fun with it. I'm a bit late to the party and I'm not sure how active the fandom is, but if you're reading this, HI, I'd love to hear from you! :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’d find it funny, or strange, or even sad that three days is all that’s needed to pull himself out by the roots and move all his earthly possessions to a whole new place as if he’s never existed anywhere else. Only the place isn’t new, the roots were never really deep to begin with and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s done it anyway, and besides, everything else he might be feeling is drowned by the constant dance of anxiety at the thought that apparently, he has now become a barman. Still, it’s hard to ignore Joycie’s poorly disguised shock when he calls from his new flat and pretends it’s what he’s been thinking about recently, considering something new, something simple, something <em>social</em> – he’s perfectly alright, no need to worry, this has been in the works for a while. Definitely not a spur-of-the-moment thing.</p><p><em>This </em>is<em> what you wanted,</em> he tells himself sternly as the first day of his new job dawns. <em>Idiot.</em></p><p>It was ridiculous, honestly. He acted like a child taken in by a fairy-tale, a dumb teenager falling in love for the first time (he ignores the way his heart gives a pang at that). Falling for a beautiful fresh day in the city of his dreams and allowing himself to be coaxed back all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, applying for a job he doesn’t even like and has no idea how to do. It was all that song and Oxford, spinning a magic reserved for that single day only, a magic they certainly wouldn’t repeat today when his nerves are all a jumble and his breath is playing catch up with his pounding heart and the thing he’s somehow both yearned for and dreaded is minutes away.</p><p>It feels so much like starting college it’s embarrassing. That faint echo of hope, expanding horizons and the juvenile dread that never grew up. It’s the children of the thoughts he had then. Of <em>They made a mistake. They meant to give the scholarship to someone else. They’ll surely send me home. I don’t belong here.</em></p><p>Perhaps she called the wrong number.</p><p>Perhaps she mistook him for some other candidate.</p><p>In any case, she’ll take one look at him behind the bar and change her mind.</p><p>But the Oxford of his past isn’t this present one. And while one was fresh colours and new beginnings and music and poetry and innocence, the other is somewhat tired, a bit faded – wary and sharper and more experienced, but it <em>cares</em>. He can feel it in the way it snatches the memories away before they can take form and directs his gaze towards something new and pure and promising. In the end, why not? Even if it does make his breath catch in his throat to imagine himself behind a bar, it also feels akin to hope, like flower buds in spring, young and fresh and fragile and eager to meet the world.</p><p>It’s Monday and the brief walk from his flat to the coffee shop isn’t nearly long enough for him to get his nerves in order.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s different when it’s full, he thinks. Louder and brighter and stuffier, and somehow more lurid than refined. There are <em>so many people.</em> There’s a soft hum of prosaic conversation in the air, and the music playing in the background is decidedly not opera. It doesn’t quite fit the high-minded haven he’d imagined.</p><p>Well, perhaps at a different time of day.</p><p>Miss Frazil is behind the bar with a big man in an apron who’s serving cake to some customers. She lights up when she spots him and waves him over. He smiles as he approaches, even if an ominous voice inside says – <em>that’s it then, no turning back.</em></p><p>“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”</p><p><em>So was I</em>, he starts to say, then thinks better of it, gapes for a couple of seconds and closes his mouth. She gives him a knowing look.</p><p>“First day of work nerves?”</p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>“You’ll be fine. Well go on, take your place, don’t be shy.”</p><p>He steps behind the bar. The change of perspective almost makes him dizzy.</p><p>“This is Jim,” Miss Frazil says. The waiter, hands full of plates and in the middle of a conversation with a customer, smiles and nods at him. “He’ll show you the ropes. Anything you need, ask him. Jim, this is Morse. Do take care of him today, I believe he’s rather questioning his choices at the moment. I wish I could stay and hold your hand, Morse, but I really must dash.”</p><p>And he knows it’s not a thing one should ask, it seems like a vaguely rude way to tempt the fate, but before he can stop himself –</p><p>“I was really your best candidate?”</p><p>Miss Frazil gives a surprised laugh.</p><p>“Goodness, no. A teetotaller whose only experience seems to involve code-breaking and academia is a peculiar choice, Morse, even for me. You are quite possibly the most unsuitable candidate for a barman that I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”</p><p>“Then why did you hire me?” he says, not quite managing to hide the annoyance in his tone.</p><p>Her face turns pensive.</p><p>“You know, it's strange, I just had this... good feeling about you. Don't know why. All I know is that it's never steered me wrong before.”</p><p>He doesn’t quite know what to say to this. She just smiles.</p><p>“Well, I’m off. Good luck! And welcome,” she says with a wink.</p><p>She’s briefly intercepted on her way to the door by an elderly, smiling woman in a long black topcoat. They start chatting, and at one point, both look at him. Feeling himself blush, he glances away. After a few seconds, Miss Frazil disappears. He’s still staring after her when a mugful of dark beer is slammed in front of him.</p><p>“Go on then,” Jim the waiter says, gesturing towards it with the air of good-natured nudge. “Frazil's alright. Doesn't mind if you wet your whistle from time to time.”</p><p>“Actually, I don't drink.”</p><p>Jim’s easy smile turns into a slight frown.</p><p>“It's beer,” he says.</p><p>Morse gives a laugh. “Well, yes.”</p><p>There is a pause, then:</p><p>“Teetotaller, huh?” Jim shrugs. “Takes all sorts, I suppose. No matter, I know just what you want.”</p><p>He procures two plates with the largest slices of cake Morse has seen in his life. One can only be described as a solid chocolate brick, and the other is some ornate monstrosity with raspberries and cream.</p><p>“Pick your poison.”</p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>Morse stares at them. He’s pretty sure one would last him a fortnight.</p><p>“I don’t really...”</p><p>“Don't tell me you don't eat either, matey.”</p><p>Jim holds out a fork. Morse stares at it, then casts another unsure look at the plates.</p><p>“Or if you don’t fancy these, there’s plenty of other kinds in the kitchen. Come on, you’ll meet our baker while you’re at it.”</p><p>“The customers –”</p><p>“They know where to knock in case of emergency. Got to eat something, mate,” Jim says, casting an unsure look at his figure. “Get your energy going early on or you’ll be run off your feet soon. Nothing better than sugar to get you through the day, and this is experience speaking.”</p><p>“… The day's hardly begun –”</p><p>His half-hearted protests seem to fall on deaf ears as Jim ushers him through a half-hidden door next to the cake display.</p><p>And suddenly, Morse feels like Alice taking her first glance through the keyhole into the lovely garden, only Wonderland seems to be all around him. It’s cluttered and wild and colourful and bright, but somehow not tastelessly so. Various bowls and pans line the tables along with different kinds of sweets. Huge cakes loom from stands all over the place. The walls are covered in detailed drawings of baked goods and bits of paper that look like recipes, the shelves full of pots overflowing with herbs and flowers. The next thing he becomes aware of is the scent – sweet and fresh and fragrant, like bottled sunshine and spring.</p><p>It’s beautiful, he finds himself thinking. Chaotic and untamed and utterly beautiful.</p><p>In the midst of all that, a short, stout man wearing a chef’s hat and a bright flowery apron is mixing something in a bowl. He looks up at their entry.</p><p>“Max, this is Morse, our new barman. This is Max, our confectionery mastermind.”</p><p>“My blushes, Strange,” Max says, sounding rather pleased.</p><p>Morse smiles. “It’s nice to meet you.”</p><p>“Likewise.”</p><p>He extends a hand that’s dripping in crimson sauce-like goo.</p><p>Morse stares at it. Max follows his eyes, chuckles, wipes his hand on a nearby tea towel and offers it again.</p><p>It still looks sticky.</p><p>Morse doesn’t move.</p><p>Max raises his eyebrows.</p><p>“Alright, instead of a handshake, how about you try this?”</p><p>Before he can speak, the baker holds out a fork with an enormous white, yellow and orange piece of cake stuck on it.</p><p>Morse opens his mouth, then closes it again. Max and Jim are both staring at him. There isn’t an even vaguely polite way to refuse these two for the fourth time in a row, so he accepts the offering. Unfortunately, the first thing that happens as he chews into the piece of cake is a coughing fit.</p><p>“How very flattering,” Max says.</p><p>“Sorry.” Morse clears his throat. “Just a bit sweet for my taste.” He gives the fork back, clearing his throat again. “Uh… it's nice, though.”</p><p>Max gives a wry smile. “Nice. My greatest aspirations are satisfied.”</p><p>Morse frowns.</p><p>“You don't like confectionery, Morse?” Max asks, sticking his hands back into the red goo and beginning to work it.</p><p>“Not really my cup of tea, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“You won't make it very far in the patisserie business.”</p><p>Morse blinks. Like Miss Frazil, the baker also seems to have that fluid tone that doesn’t suggest whether he is joking or not.</p><p>“Uh… I'm not actually in the patisserie business. I’m just the barman.”</p><p>“Oh! That's alright, then. Won't be competition for our Jim here.”</p><p>Jim puffs out his chest.</p><p>“Max is tutoring me. Open my own bakery some day, that’s the dream. That’s why we need you to mind the bar. Gives me more time to spend in the kitchen during lulls, apprenticing. Speaking of, the customers should be lining up by now.”</p><p>Jim and Max give him politely expectant looks.</p><p>“Uh – you haven’t really told me –”</p><p>“You’ve made coffee and tea before, haven’t you? If it’s not that, it’s usually beer. Sometimes they want the stronger stuff, that’s up on the shelves. There’s a cheat sheet for the cakes and pastries under the bar with drawings under each name. If you don’t know what they’re asking, just have a gander. Bob’s your uncle. Is that strawberry jam, Max?”</p><p>“New recipe. I’m adding just a smidgeon of vanilla…”</p><p>They drift off into a conversation. Feeling dismissed, Morse smothers a huff and walks back towards the door.</p><p>“Oi, Morse!”</p><p>He turns around. Jim, his hands already covered in the red goo, smiles at him.</p><p>“No need to worry, matey. We’ve got the best customers in all of Oxford, most of them have been coming here for donkey’s. A queer fish or two, but no real troublemakers. Anyone gives you a bother, just come get me. Be there in a minute anyway, just want to see how this goes. So you add vanilla before or after cooking?”</p><p>“Well, if you want the taste to be particularly subtle…”</p><p>Rather more dispirited than encouraged, Morse exits the kitchen.</p><p>What has he got himself into?</p><p>*</p><p>The blare of the alarm pierces the soft silence of sleep. She hits the snooze button and draws her arm back into the warmth of the bed without opening her eyes.</p><p>The minutes tick by.</p><p>The alarm goes off again.</p><p>The minutes tick by, and she’s spent far too many of them sitting on the bed and staring at a spot on the wall, her mind filled with sluggish emptiness that will start hurting the moment she raises her head from the pillow.</p><p>The alarm goes off again. She can feel the time she needs to get herself presentable slipping away, but her limbs and eyelids are so heavy. She’ll be late again, and Mr Fordyce will be snippy with her all day, and she’ll be a complete mess until lunch and just plain tired later.</p><p>The alarm goes off again. The girls won’t comment on the bags under her eyes and her less-than-perfect hair and waned disposition, but at least she’ll have <em>You look tired, are you alright?</em>, and <em>Ooh, late night then? What’s his name? </em>to look forward to.</p><p>The conversations from last night start playing in her head again. As if they ever really stopped.</p><p>The alarm goes off again.</p><p>With a groan, Joan lifts herself up from her sanctuary and goes to the bathroom.</p><p>*</p><p>Each step downs the stairs is a tiny blow to her aching head. Yawning, she reaches up to rub her eyes, before remembering she’s already put on eyeliner. She sighs and rubs her temples instead.</p><p>She really should have come home earlier.</p><p>“Morning, mum!”</p><p>“Morning, Joanie!” her mother chirps from the kitchen. “Slept well?”</p><p>“Well enough,” she says. It’s not exactly a lie – when everything that was said finally stopped swirling around her head and she managed to drift off, she did indeed sleep well.</p><p>“How was the reunion, then?”</p><p>“Well I missed the memo that the main topic was going to be husbands and their dirty socks,” Joan says, stuffing a sandwich into her bag. “Other than that, alright.”</p><p>Her mum makes a sympathetic noise. “All married, then?”</p><p>“And Anna engaged. Though if she still is after last night, she’s a better woman than me. And don’t give me that look.”</p><p>“I’m not giving you any look,” her mum says indignantly. “I’m making sandwiches for your father.”</p><p>“You’re always giving me that look,” she says, and kisses her mum on the cheek.</p><p>The doorbell rings.</p><p>“That’ll be one of dad’s. New boy today, apparently.”</p><p>“I’ll get it.”</p><p>Despite the headache, Joan walks towards the front door perked up. It’s a sort of an ongoing bet she has with herself, whenever someone new comes to pick up her dad. How soon can she make them laugh or, if she’s feeling particularly mischievous, how soon can she make them stammer and blush. Too soon, usually. Some of them barely dare to look at her, not even speaking in her direction when her dad or even mum is around. It just makes her more determined to get them to loosen up and act like normal human beings.</p><p>And sometimes, she just wants to say <em>Look at me. I’m not just his daughter. I’m more than just someone to open the door and exchange pleasantries with till he comes down. I’m someone. </em></p><p>She opens the door and for a moment, she’s at a loss for words. She has to admit, this one – a tall dark man with sharp features and possibly the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen – doesn’t look quite like the usual ones.</p><p>He doesn’t seem indifferent either. His eyebrows shoot ever so slightly up as he takes her in. His eyes, somewhat widened in surprise, never stray below hers, but she easily recognizes the appreciation in them even though the rest of his face is a mask.</p><p>He <em>sees</em> her.</p><p>And he likes what he sees.</p><p>“Wotcher.”</p><p>Joan grins.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s so easy he almost stumbles. Like descending a staircase in the dark and thinking there’s one more step to take. The ground hits the foot solid and comfortable as the heart skips a beat in preparation for a fall. But there isn’t one.</p><p>He feels like he’s still waiting for that last step as the man thanks him, takes his cup of coffee and goes to sit at a table.</p><p>Straightens out his newspaper.</p><p>Picks up the cup.</p><p>Takes a sip.</p><p>Swallows.</p><p>His expression doesn’t change.</p><p>He puts the cup back down on the table and reverts his attention to the newspaper.</p><p>Suddenly, Morse’s view is compromised by fingers appearing in his line of vision, a bit too near for comfort. He gives a start. It’s the little old lady in the black topcoat who talked to Miss Frazil. She’s waving a hand in front of his face with a smile, very obviously waiting to order for quite some time.</p><p>“Sorry,” Morse says sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “What can I get for you?”</p><p>“You’re new here, love, aren’t you?”</p><p>“My first day.”</p><p>“Welcome to the family,” she says earnestly, and squeezes his hand.</p><p>Morse looks down and smiles, unexpectedly warmed.</p><p>“I was just telling Dottie you seem like our sort. Kind. We need a bit of kindness here, especially these days.”</p><p>He doesn’t quite know how to reply to that, but she doesn’t seem to mind.</p><p>“I’ll have a cup of tea. No rush, take your time, love. Make it however you prefer, I’m not fussy. I’ll just be over there.”</p><p>She trots off to the sit at a table next to his first customer.</p><p>Somewhat perplexed, Morse glances at the man again.</p><p>He takes another sip of the coffee.</p><p>Puts it back.</p><p>Straightens out the newspaper.</p><p>The old lady catches him watching and smiles, then gives him a little wave. He smiles back and looks down, blushing, then busies himself with the teapot. Later, when she sips her tea, she grins and gives him a thumbs up.</p><p>More people come, but he keeps stealing glances at those two as long as they’re there.</p><p>He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.</p><p>It doesn’t.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Morse and Joan are endgame, but mind the slow burn tag. :) I do <s>hope</s> think they’ll actually meet in the next one. Max is quoting Sherlock Holmes here - "My blushes, Watson!"</p><p>Thank you for your wonderful support both here and on Tumblr, you’re all so lovely! This is just a bit of fun and not to be taken too seriously, but I’d love to hear what you think! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Here we go again.</em>
</p><p>Smothering a sigh, Morse accepts the offered fork and plops the cake morsel into his mouth. The bespectacled eyes of his co-worker peer owlishly at him literal <em>inches</em> from his nose.</p><p>He gives it an experimental chew.</p><p>"Still too sweet?" Max asks, sighing.</p><p>Morse grimaces. For all of three seconds, he was quite pleased by how neutral he was keeping his face. He manages to swallow without coughing once, though, and considers it a small victory as far as budding friendships go.</p><p>"Sorry,” he says.</p><p>“How about next time I give you a raw lemon, perhaps that'll be more to your liking."</p><p>They exchange a look. Max plucks the empty fork from his grasp and returns to the kitchen, lips pursed in that long-suffering way that spoke of philistine tastes, wasted ingredients and ill-mannered, unappreciative colleagues.</p><p>Morse rolls his eyes.</p><p>It’s his third day on the job and he’s yet to discover if he’s proven to be a worse worker or co-worker. So far he’s managed botch up more orders than not, spill more beer than actually serve, and annoy the people around him even more than he usually tended to do. He returns home still going over the conversations, beverages and cakes he’s served and how he could have done it faster, better, more politely, and then wonders what his life has become that his usual musings have been replaced by something as mundane as that. Three days filled with so many hopes, so many expectations, so many people – always too few or too many and never just right.</p><p>Jim, apparently unconvinced that he can manage an entire shift without large pieces of cake to prop him up, is alternatively attempting to feed him or engage him in conversations about sports – unsuccessful on both accounts, but not for the lack of trying – and Max is just… what, fishing for compliments? He doesn’t seem like the type, but why else would he be making him try all those pastries? It’s ridiculous. The customers seem to fawn over his bakes often enough, why in the world would he need Morse’s compliments too?</p><p>And how can he ever hope to give them? How can he explain to his co-workers that his mother barely bought any sugar and all he knew when he was a child were her simple, mild recipes made with that quiet joy and love she had about her, like she knew some secret that made the world a kinder place in her eyes. And then he lost her, and he still remembers the look on Gwen’s face the first and only time he reached for a biscuit she had made, as well as the look afterwards when he choked on all the undissolved sugar crystals, and the precise piercing moment he realised he would never eat his mother’s vanilla shortbread again, when the sweetness turned into something sick in his throat that burned and choked and cut off his air supply. And he became aware, for the first time in his life, of needing to get away from it all, stumbling through the hallway to get to the room that felt cold and foreign in the house that would never be home.</p><p>But how can he tell that to his co-workers? He can't. So he swallows Max’s jibe and wishes that both of them would just leave him alone, and once again that night he tell himself he’ll finish the resignation letter tomorrow, even though the thought of searching for a new job and moving again makes him wonder what the point of it all is.</p><p>He’ll have to do it at some point, though. If he doesn’t quit, Miss Frazil is bound to fire him. This is just prolonging the inevitable. And for what reason?</p><p>But it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. After all, it’s nothing like he thought it would be, is it? The customers and workers are hardly the refined opera aficionados he imagined. The stack of records offers mostly names he’s never even heard of, and the music that plays is just the lively, mind-numbing beat of an average radio station. There’s nothing in this job for him.</p><p><em>This is not what I want</em>, he tells himself as he walks to Un Bel Di on Thursday morning. Oxford, his third parent, is silent.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s so unexpected she surprises herself. The ordinary day offers no warning, nothing to prepare her for the fact that, when she passes the kitchen and spots her mother making sandwiches, a wild thought will flash through her mind –</p><p>
  <em>Maybe I could make Peter a sandwich. </em>
</p><p>Joan stops in her tracks. Her eyes go wide. Then she actually, physically winces.</p><p>
  <em>You'd be laughed out of the house. Quite literally, and rightly so.</em>
</p><p>She wonders if <em>he</em> would laugh, though. He must laugh sometimes, surely? So far she’s only seen that slight quirk of his lips that means he finds her attractive, and it feels good but oh, Joan wants to see him smile. She wants to see emotion flicker across his handsome face, to see his eyes crinkle and hear what he sounds like when his words are all jumbled with joy, anything to confirm him as an actual person and not just a wall of dark attractiveness and eyes. Despite looks from Sam, who’s loyal enough to only tease her in private but still perceptive enough to be annoying, she tries her best. Joan Thursday is nothing if not stubborn, and she uses her power every chance she gets, revelling in every tiny, practically imagined, chink in his cool façade.</p><p>And one morning, it happens. Sam makes some dumb joke and she an even dumber quip in reply, and Peter half-turns away, bringing a hand to his mouth, and she <em>swears</em> he’s hiding a grin. Excitement bubbles in her sternum like a caffeine rush.</p><p>Too soon, her father gets down and he’s taking his coat and Joan wants to bask in these moments, prolong them even if she risks putting her foot in her mouth – when Peter lingers at the door.</p><p>It’s not the usual, momentary appraisal of her form, boldly embellished by a different hairstyle, careful makeup and a smile that’s just for him. For a few seconds, his eyes are openness and fondness and something else entirely.</p><p>*</p><p><em>He’s noticed</em>, Win thinks that night.</p><p>Of course he’d notice. It’s his job after all, both as a father and detective inspector – not that Joanie’s been subtle, bless her, getting up early to primp her hair, hovering around the hallway like a restless house cat and flinging the door open the moment the boy rings the bell. Oh yes, he’s noticed. Win was witness to the exact moment his face turned dark as he saw the oblivious children share that look.</p><p><em>Another big row to look forward to</em>, she thinks, sighing as her grouchy husband climbs into bed. Joanie’s had Fred wrapped around her little finger since the moment he’s laid eyes on her, but when it comes to some things he’s as inexorable as the elements. And while it eases Win’s own worries that he keeps such a close eye on their daughter, sometimes she wishes he’d give in just a little bit. If only for the sake of peace around the house.</p><p>“Well I think it’s good for her,” she says, interrupting his litany.</p><p>Fred scoffs. “Good for her? Perched at the door every morning, batting her lashes like a silent bloody film star and late for her bus? <em>Good for her?</em> You only know the polite, cultured Peter Jakes, you’ve not heard him at the nick when some unsuspecting WPC happens to pass his way. The smirk and the wandering eyes and the off-colour remarks – I don’t like it, Winifred, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”</p><p>“Stop growling, Dad,” Win says she puts on hand cream. “In case you haven’t noticed, she's a young woman now –”</p><p>“I know, that's precisely the –”</p><p>“– and it's hardly going to be someone her parents choose for her, is it? Might as well be the boy you must have seen <em>some</em> good in, to take him on as your bagman.”</p><p>Fred grumbles something under his breath.</p><p>“She’s already gone off it thanks to all the things those silly girls from her school said at the reunion. You’ve heard her! You don't want her to be alone for the rest of her life, do you?”</p><p>“No, but it matters to me whose dirty socks she's picking up when she's waiting alone in some two-up two-down with the dinner getting cold –”</p><p>“Perhaps husbands should learn to pick up their own dirty socks,” Win says delicately.</p><p>Fred gives a non-committal grunt.</p><p>“I still don't bloody like it.”</p><p>*</p><p>It’s Thursday. The coffee shop is nearly empty, in that tiring, restless way that means it’ll fill to the brim the moment he thinks of taking out a crossword. His eyes travel over the few customers one more time, and he spots the woman with long, wavy blonde hair who came in fifteen minutes ago sitting at a table with her eyes closed, faintly swaying in rhythm with the music.</p><p>He observes her for a couple of minutes, then takes a pot of tea and approaches her unsurely. She doesn’t open her eyes.</p><p>“Excuse me… Are you alright?”</p><p>“Quite, but thank you for asking.”</p><p>He stares at her until she opens her eyes.</p><p>“I’ve got seven children at home,” she says. “Mum’s minding them. I come here once a week to listen to the music, eat Max’s chocolate cake and do absolutely nothing.”</p><p>He smiles, nods and makes to leave.</p><p>“I suppose you think it terribly selfish of me,” she continues, “wool-gathering here while my children torture their granny. Awfully clingy, the lot of them. And it’s not like they’re all set. Two of the big ones are having trouble at school, and a little one broke a toe in the living room last week playing chase with his Papa. The house looks as if it belongs to a pack of hyena, I could be doing all sorts of things around it. I could be sleeping, haven’t done that in ages. But I just come to sit here and do nothing.”</p><p>Morse smiles again.</p><p>“I understand.”</p><p>“No, you don’t,” she says, and smiles back. “I know seven’s a ridiculously large number in its own right, but you haven’t met my children. You’ll have the dubious pleasure on Sunday, though.”</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>“We’re on the List,” she says, by way of explanation.</p><p>“The List?”</p><p>The woman points behind him.</p><p>“You’ve got a line forming.”</p><p>He glances towards the bar, where three people are tapping their fingers and turning around in an unmistakeably miffed manner.</p><p>He rushes back, cringing as he remembers he’s forgotten to make more coffee. Mercifully, there’s just enough to serve all of them. As they leave, he pours water into the pot and puts it in the coffee maker.</p><p>A couple of minutes later, he finds himself face to face with the first customer again; a short elderly man with a moustache, holding his beverage with a particularly sour look on his face.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” the man begins, “but this is the most disgusting cup of tea I’ve ever had the misfortune to taste. It’s all brown and bitter!”</p><p>“Uh, yes. That’s because it’s a cup of coffee, sir.”</p><p>The man blinks.</p><p>“Coffee? I ordered tea.”</p><p>Morse gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m pretty sure it was coffee.”</p><p>“I’ve been coming to this coffee shop from the day it opened,” the man continues, “and not once have I ordered anything other than tea.”</p><p>Morse blinks.</p><p>“Well perhaps you misspoke, or –”</p><p>“Misspoke?!”</p><p>Two more customers walk in through the door and make a beeline for the bar. Morse picks up the pot of freshly made coffee from the machine and moves several cups with his other to set it at the countertop. The man is still staring at him in scandalised shock.</p><p>“Look, I’ll make you a cup of tea if you’d like, but –”</p><p> “You’re new here, lad,” the man interrupts gruffly, “so I’m prepared to let this slide –”</p><p>Morse’s voice and the clang echo in the sudden silence. He clutches his hand as red-hot pain blossoms across his hand, liquid needles seeping through his skin –</p><p>Jim runs out of the gents’.</p><p>“Oh, bugger. Stick it under cold water, matey –”</p><p>“I know that!”</p><p>“Max, we need you!”</p><p>Suddenly Max is there.</p><p>“I've heard the screams. Who's the patient?”</p><p>“Morse. Spilled hot coffee on himself.”</p><p>“Come on through, we’ll sort it out.”</p><p>Through the haze, he feels steady hands rushing him into the kitchen, followed by the flustered voice of his customer:</p><p>“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”</p><p>“It’s alright, Mr Bell. Why don’t you get back to your manuscript, we’ll get everything sorted –”</p><p>Jim’s voice is lost as Max shuts the kitchen door behind them.</p><p>He turns on the tap and sticks Morse’s hand under it. The cold water runs over the burn like velvet.</p><p>“Don’t move. Back in a tick.”</p><p>Morse closes his eyes, breathes out through his lips and waits.</p><p>After some time, as the worst of the sting slowly goes numb, Max appears with a tiny bottle of some yellow liquid. He pulls out the cork, pour some on a tea towel, takes Morse’s hand and gingerly dabs at the skin.</p><p>“What’s that?” Morse mumbles.</p><p>“You'll know soon enough, I’d wager.”</p><p>As if on cue, the scent of something long-forgotten floats up at him, drawn from the very depths of his soul. The time around him slows until it almost starts going backwards, taking his memory to soft, faraway moments of his mother baking in their kitchen.</p><p>It brings a smile to his face, even as his eyes suddenly feel warm.</p><p>“Vanilla,” he murmurs.</p><p>“Marvellous remedy for burns,” Max is saying. “Tried and tested many times.”</p><p>Morse nods and looks down, not trusting his voice. He can feel Max’s eyes on him as he dabs at his hand.</p><p>“I’m afraid this job rather gives one asbestos fingers,” Max says, tone light but tinged with worry, and subtly tries to peer into his eyes. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”</p><p>Morse swallows and shakes his head, still looking down.</p><p>Max nods.</p><p>“If you say so, Morse. If you say so.”</p><p>He doesn’t say anything. He focuses all his attention at keeping the emotions at bay as Max rubs the substance into his skin with a feather touch, and for a while, everything that exists is a friendly soul trying to help and that faded memory of days long gone brought back to life. And he’s almost glad he’s burned his hand, just for these moments, for a chance to remember how it felt, however much it hurts…</p><p>Suddenly, an altogether different smell reaches his nostrils. He clears his throat.</p><p>“Is there something burning?”</p><p>“Ah,” Max says. He raises his head and looks at Morse. “That would be the orange and cinnamon madeleines. They have a rather brazen tendency to do so when neglected.”</p><p>“Oh, Max, I’m sorry –”</p><p>“Perfectly alright, Morse,” Max says as he makes his way to the oven. “<em>The stars have not dealt me the worst they could do</em>.”</p><p>“<em>My pleasures are plenty, my troubles are two,”</em> his mouth supplies, before his mind’s even had a chance to register.</p><p>Max raises his eyebrows at him as he takes out the madeleines.</p><p>“Rather more than two, I’m afraid,” Morse says miserably, jutting his chin in the direction of the tray.</p><p>“This? Hardly. Life gives you burned biscuits, Morse, you make ice-cream sandwiches.”</p><p>He glances down at his reddened hand, glistening with vanilla.</p><p>“And what do you do with this?” he asks glumly.</p><p>Max sets the tray on the edge of the countertop, wipes his hands, then takes off his glasses. He starts rubbing them with the edge of his apron.</p><p>“I believe you’re labouring under the impression that you’re in some peculiar predicament no one could possibly make heads or tails of. In case you haven’t noticed, Jim's own hands are covered in burn marks, and I used to nearly serve a finger or two to some poor sod every other day when I first began, as these nicks will tell you,” he says, wiggling his fingers at him. “Please don’t agonise over what is an unfortunate, although unavoidable consequence of every human undertaking – learning only after a blunder and not before.”</p><p>Max puts his glasses back on and smiles.</p><p>“You'll get the hang of it, Morse. It just takes a bit of time, that’s all.”</p><p>He tries to smile back, but it feels like more of a grimace.</p><p>“Not sure if I want to get the hang of it, to be honest.”</p><p>“Bit too lowbrow for you?”</p><p>His eyes widen. Max gives him a knowing look.</p><p>“Dottie mentioned you were a Greats man. I certainly wouldn’t be surprised if you found all of this a bit humdrum.”</p><p>There is a pause as he wonders if he should say it. Max <em>did</em> quote Housman just now…</p><p>“I don’t mean to sound disrespectful,” Morse begins. “But… is it not? For you?”</p><p>“This job is not all that I do, you know. There are other ways to satisfy my so-called <em>elevated</em> tastes when I do so wish. But to answer your question, no, it is not. I do what I love, and I rather think such things are important in life, as mawkish as that might sound.”</p><p>“It doesn’t,” he says earnestly. “I’m glad.”</p><p>Max smiles again.</p><p>“You know your own mind, I’m sure. But if you want my advice, I’d say give it a fair go. Perhaps you’ll enjoy what it all comes down to, when you get the chance to experience it.”</p><p>“And what’s that?”</p><p>“Making people happy, Morse.”</p><p>The silence is broken by Jim bursting through the door.</p><p>“Blimey, what a rush. Can’t stay long, just popped in to see how you’re doing. Here.”</p><p>A mug of ale is slammed in front of him. Morse frowns.</p><p>"I don't –"</p><p>"– drink, yes, matey, I know. Hardly counts as a drink all things considering, does it? Practically medicine. Now get that down you.”</p><p>Still frowning, Morse lifts the mug to his lips with his good hand. The forsaken taste feels like an elixir of life. He swallows and feels his nerves buzz with energy to the tips of his burned fingers. He takes another gulp, and then another.</p><p>Jim gives him a smug look, then glances at his hand. He makes a sympathetic noise.</p><p>“Sorry, matey, all my fault. Should have warned you about him.”</p><p>Morse shakes his head. “A regular, then?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s Mr Bell. He’s a writer. Sometimes he makes a mistake and orders what his characters are drinking but he never wants anything other than tea, so that’s what we give him. Can get a bit shirty if he’s got writer’s block, but he's alright really. Actually, he was just saying –”</p><p>“What’s all this?”</p><p>All three of them turn around guiltily. Miss Frazil is standing at the door of the kitchen, a surprised expression on her face.</p><p>“Imagine my shock when I came in to find Mrs Edwards serving the punters while my three workers congregate in the kitchen,” she says, as Jim winces and runs out past her, mumbling an apology. “Lovely as this place is, Max, do chase these two out on occasion or we might as well bring the tables in here too, which I’m sure you won’t enjoy.”</p><p>“It’s my fault, Miss Frazil,” Morse interjects desperately. “I’ve burned my hand, they were only trying to help –”</p><p>“Burned your hand?” she repeats, her voice taking on a worried note. “What happened?”</p><p>“Nothing, I… Just clumsiness. I’ve spilled some coffee,” he says, flushing to the tips of his ears. Suddenly, shame makes him unable to meet her eyes. He looks down.</p><p>He can hardly believe how much he doesn’t want her to fire him.</p><p>“Let me get this straight,” Miss Frazil begins. “You’ve spilled hot coffee and burned your hand?”</p><p>He nods silently.</p><p>“Do you know what this means, Morse?”</p><p>He can’t bring himself to answer. Of course he knows, but is she going to make him say it?</p><p>Silence stretches on, and finally, Miss Frazil sighs. He looks up at her, and her face is affection, sympathy, and not a small amount of pity.</p><p>“You can consider yourself a proper barman now.”</p><p>*</p><p>He falls asleep that night to the comforting tones of his favourite aria, the scent of vanilla pervading his flat and his mind blissfully empty of thoughts.</p><p>*</p><p>On her way to the bus stop, she runs into Jim outside the coffee-shop, sweeping the pavement and whistling to himself.</p><p>"Alright, Joanie?"</p><p>She nods. "Yourself?"</p><p>"Can’t complain. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s Mr and Mrs T?”</p><p>“Oh, the usual. Dad’s off chasing criminals and mum despairs of us all. How are things at Un Bel Di?”</p><p>Jim shrugs.</p><p>"Same old, same old. We've got a new barman. An odd duck and no mistake. Seems alright, though."</p><p>Joan gives a laugh.</p><p>"An odd duck?"</p><p>"Come by some time, see for yourself."</p><p>Glancing through the window, she spots a vague, reddish-haired figure bustling behind the bar. She smiles, again, at Jim’s description.</p><p>“Guess I’ll have to.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Interaction coming up in the next one! This one was just getting a bit too long.</p><p>Max and Morse quote A. E. Housman. </p><p>This is probably the most low-stakes fic I’ve ever written lol but I hope you’re still enjoying it. Come say hi in the comments, I love hearing your impressions! &lt;3</p>
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